Sometimes Sixteen Ain't So Sweet
by fabulista.xx
Summary: Lauren is a spoiled fifteen-year-old looking to make her sweet sixteen party the best her town has ever seen. But after all the drama, will the party be bittersweet?


**Friday, May 23****rd**

**The Brockman Estate**

**Brookside, Illinois**

**4:18 P.M.**

"But Daddy," I said, staring at the framed family photo sitting on my multi-billionaire father's desk. It was the usual American-family photo- except we were all wearing designers such as Chanel, Armani, and Dior. It was all a typical day in the life of me, Lauren Brockman, and my family, in our hometown on the North Shore of Chicago: Brookside, Illinois.

I continued with my plea: for me, a charming young 15-year-old, to have a performer at my upcoming sweet sixteen party. My party was going to be at the Highwood Country Club in about two and a half months: on August 8th. August 8th was my actual birthday, which made my party either a dream come true or a total bust- depending on what happened. If my party went like I wanted it to, then I would always remember my sixteenth birthday as the best day of my life. But if one of three things happened, my party really would never be forgotten- but not in a good way.

There were three ways my party could go wrong: one, if my dad didn't get the performer I wanted; two, if I didn't get a BMW at my party; and three, if there was absolutely any drama at all. But drama was pretty much guaranteed, and that was why I planned on scheduling every minute of my party, so nothing could go wrong. I had already decided the theme of my party: Old Hollywood. It was based on the trend-setting celebrities of the 1950s, 60s and 70s. Why? Because two of my very favorite actresses in the world were none other than Audrey Hepburn and Marilyn Monroe. I admired their style, dignity (or lack thereof on Marilyn's part), and grace.

This was why I was asking for Fergie at my party. Fergie was the type of performer that never stuck to one style, so she could meld herself to the theme of my party. I could already picture her in a classy updo, wearing loads of jewelry and cooing "Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend" on the cabaret stage at the country club.

I was snapped out of my perfect-party trance by my dad's monotonous voice droning on about how I was a fortunate girl, and I shouldn't complain about what I didn't have, because children in Africa didn't have anything. _Blah, blah, blah… _I thought. "Dad, we're not in Africa, and we live in a _mansion_. I don't think you can compare any aspect of our lives to people in Africa."

He slumped down in his chair with his signature sigh, openly admitting defeat. I screamed, knowing he would give me anything I wanted, and then ran upstairs to my room to keep planning my party.

**Saturday, May 24****th**

**O'Hare Airport**

**Chicago, Illinois**

**9:06 A.M.**

I rubbed my weary eyes, coming very close to smudging my Givenchy eyeliner. We were waiting for our flight to New York City, and I had (unfortunately) been awake since six in the morning. We were going to NYC to find the perfect dress for my party. The type of dress I was 

looking for was a long, slinky red dress. Once I added a pair of heels, a curly updo and diamond jewelry, I would look like the new Marilyn Monroe.

I just wouldn't act like her.

"Flight 371 to New York City is now boarding," the PA system blared throughout the large, sterile airport. I covered my ears, smashing my fingers against the pointy intertwined Cs that were stuck through my earlobe. I was so not getting used to this.

"Mom, tell me again why we can't use the private jet?" I tugged on the strap of my Louis Vuitton duffel bag that was hanging from my shoulder.

"Lauren, for the last time, we're getting a new leather interior in the jet. Now stop complaining and move, move, move!" Easy for her to say, I thought. All she had to carry was her new Birkin, stuffed with credit cards.

In the midst of my grumbling, I heard two identical screams and the click-clacking of kitten heels coming toward me. "Lauren!" the voices yelled. I turned around and dropped the three bags I was carrying, feeling them land on my feet. But I didn't care, because my two best friends were back from vacation in California, and they were now coming to New York City with me. The two skinny girls wrapped their arms around me, and I practically fell onto the tile floor of the airport.

"Anna! Vanessa!" My high-pitched voice resounded through the airport terminal and I could practically see the evil-eye I was getting from other passengers, even though I was smothered under 240 pounds of best friends. "Okay guys," I blurted out. "We can reunionize in…"

"NEW YORK CITY!" The three of us yelled. Now this time I could actually see the glares we were getting, and they weren't pretty. So I threw my bags over my shoulder, clasped Anna's left hand and Vanessa's right hand, and kept walking towards our plane. We were three 15-year-old best friends on a mission for the perfect dress.


End file.
